


A Very Supernatural Crossover

by jumpersandtrenchesandleatherjackets



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpersandtrenchesandleatherjackets/pseuds/jumpersandtrenchesandleatherjackets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean and Castiel suddenly find themselves in the lives of our favorite consulting detective and his blogger, and vice versa, problems ensue as they try to figure out how to return to their own worlds. All they can do is try to figure out the meddling angel Gabriel's lesson and their own feelings toward each other. Dean and Cas are in the Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock and John join in what was supposed to be an ordinary hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Star Crossed

“This must be another one of Gabriel’s lessons,” Castiel said, smoothing down his trench coat. His eyes squinted as he tried to take in his new surroundings. “I believe we’re in London.”

  
“Damn it,” Dean cursed, upset the archangel had gotten the better of him again. He turned around, searching for his brother. “Where’s Sam?”

  
“I don’t think he’s part of this lesson. He doesn't seem to be here,” Castiel replied. Sam was no where to be seen.

  
“Awesome,” Dean said sarcastically. Then he noticed what Cas was wearing. “Whoa, what’s with the new coat?” Cas looked down in surprise. A long black coat replaced his usual trench coat, and his blue tie was gone. And he was wearing a purple button-down silk shirt. Cas didn't usually pay attention to what he wore, but this was weird, even for his brother. Plus his shirt was a little too tight.

  
Dean groaned as he saw what he was sporting. Gone was his flannel and tee, instead a white sweater. A knitted sweater. Or pullover or cardigan or something. He didn’t know what it was called, and he didn’t care. It was definitely not cool.

  
“When we get back home I’m gonna ice him,” Dean said, disgusted with his attire.

  
“Yes,” Castiel replied. “Because that has worked so well before.”

  
Before Dean could give a snarky remark, the two were suddenly approached by a crowd of people. With cameras and microphones. _Paparazzi? Not good,_ Dean thought. Being filmed meant a possibility of being traced, and a lot of people had it out for him. Dangerous, especially in Gabriel’s world.

  
To his surprise, the microphones were shoved in Cas’s face, and the reporters began bombarding him with questions.

  
“With Moriarty back on the streets, do you regret your court testimony statements?”

  
“You and John, completely platonic or something more?”

  
“What’s next for the Reichenbach Hero?”

  
Cas tried nodding and smiling at the reporters, waving a little. He had no idea how to answer their questions. He looked toward Dean, red-faced from being referred to as John and the implications of a relationship.

  
“Mr. Holmes, before returning to 221B-” Cas stopped listening when he noted the recognition in Dean’s eyes. Holmes and John…as in, Sherlock and Watson? he thought.

  
“Excuse us,” Dean said, pulling Cas away from the mob and into the nearest door, luckily marked 221B. This, according to that reporter, must be where they live.

 

“Cas,” he said, taking a breath. “I think I know where we are. I think we’re in the Sherlock Holmes books or something, only modern. We’re characters.”

  
Castiel nodded. “What is the lesson in this?”

  
“Last time zapped us into characters, we were supposed to ‘play our roles.’ Maybe it’s something similar here.”

  
“Perhaps,” Cas replied doubtfully. What possible roles could Gabriel want them to fill?

  
“Until we figure it out,” Dean said, “we better play along. Too bad I never read the books. If only Sammy was here. I know he’s read them at least once.”

  
“The reporters mentioned a Moriarty. Dean, Moriarty kills Sherlock.”

  
“Why would the main character die? That sounds ridiculous.”

  
“Well, it turned out that Sherlock faked his death.”

  
“How do you know this again?” Dean asked, confused. If he hadn't read the books, Cas definitely wouldn't have.

“I’m very pop culture savvy now,” was all Cas said about his new found knowledge. “Anyway, this seems to be an adaptation of the original series, so I doubt it’s completely the same. We must be in an alternate reality.”

  
“Right. Well, Sherlock seems pretty famous. I’d bet we can research ourselves online,” Dean said, nodding his head towards the stairs.

  
“Oh you two shouldn't have any problems with that,” said a kind motherly voice from behind them. “You've been in the newspaper more than the queen I think.” The woman chuckled.

  
Dean turned around in surprise. Now who was this? She was older, with laugh lines and a lot of jewelry.

  
“You must be Mrs. Hudson,” Cas said, smiling hopefully with familiarity.

  
“Oh, Sherlock,” the woman said, “Did you two have a wee bit of a late one? I’ll make you a cuppa.”

  
“Thank you,” Dean called to the woman who must, in fact, be Mrs. Hudson.

  
“Oh, yes. Don’t let me interrupt,” she said with a wink. Cas, confused with the wink, squinted and cocked his head.

  
“I may be old, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, “But I can tell. I’m just glad you’ve seemed to stop denying it.”

  
“What are you talking about?” Dean asked.

  
“What, with how close you two are standing together?” she said, nodding her head towards the men. Dean suddenly noticed how close Cas was to him.

  
“Um, Sherlock, personal space?” he asked, stepping away quickly. Cas apologized and stepped away as well.

  
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Mrs. Hudson said with a laugh. She loved to see the two boys together like this. She turned to walk back to the kitchen.

  
“We’re not-” Dean called, but it fell on deaf ears. She was already gone. Dean huffed and headed up the stairs. Hopefully he would be able to find his way around the place well enough for the old woman to believe he actually lived here.

  
Dean’s first thought when he entered the room was Who the hell designed this place? It had gaudy wallpaper, and a painted smiley face with bullet holes. The entire room was a mess, and he tried to fight his urge to organize. He liked to have things set his way, but that would be suspicious. Plus, he had bigger problems at the moment.

  
Was that a skull on the fireplace?

  
Then he noticed a mirror above the mantel of the fireplace. Dean hurried over to see his new face. To his disappointment, however, the only face he saw looking back at him was his own. He should have known that wouldn't work. Mirrors were said to show your true self. And he wasn't truly John Watson.

  
It seemed like a charmed life, though. No deaths of anyone he cared about, still solving crimes with a partner by his side. He doubted he would be able to kill anyone, though.

  
He walked around the apartment, trying to become familiar with his surroundings. The kitchen was a mess with lab equipment. The fridge barely held any food. There was a mysterious jar in the microwave, but there no way was he going to open it. It held eyeballs. What is wrong with this guy? He found what he figured to be his room, going by the alarming amount of sweaters in the closet. Didn't this guy wear anything else?

  
Cas was already at the computer waiting for Dean to finish with his exploring and thoughts, whatever they were. He typed in his name and found two blogs and numerous articles. This Sherlock Holmes seemed really obsessed with tobacco ash.

  
Dean noticed Cas’s screen and hurried over. He clicked and enlarged a photo of them together. The first thing he noticed was Sherlock’s eyes. They were beautiful. He still preferred Cas’s though.

  
Wait. Where did that come from?

  
Then he noticed something else. John was shorter than Sherlock. Really short.

  
“What?” Dean said, pushing Cas away from the screen to get a better look. “Son of a bitch. Look at this, Cas.” He typed in _john watson’s height_. He’d be damned if he was going to be so-

  
“5’6? Really? Cas, I lost half a foot. Look at this. I’m practically hobbit-sized.”

  
“Dean, I think we have more important problems than your height change.”

  
“Well, look at me! I’ll kill that damn angel,” Dean insisted. “And another thing- isn’t Watson the sidekick?”

  
“Enough with the inferiority complex, Dean. John is a crucial character,” Castiel said, turning to look at Dean, who just harrumphed, unconvinced. “No, really. They need each other. Sherlock and John, they’re soul mates.”

  
“Right,” Dean coughed at that awkwardly. Cas said that they were soul mates. Him and Cas. Playing soul mates.

  
Cas continued reading about the two men. There wasn’t much for personal info, but he did learn a few of the basics. He turned to Dean.

  
“I did find out some things,” he said, relaying the information. “It’s similar to the books. I am a consulting detective, and work with our friend Greg Lestrade. You help, as you are an army doctor. You blog about it. Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson don’t seem to be my biggest fans. We live in a flat at the address 221B Baker Street.”

  
“Yes, where your landlady made you each a cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson said, interrupting. She set the tea tray on the table near the couch.

  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Dean said with a smile, which he hoped was very Watson-like.

  
“Just remember,” she said as a warning, “I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.” Mrs. Hudson left as quickly as she came, and Dean couldn't help feeling fond of her.

  
Castiel had not moved from his spot at the computer. He just sat there, pensive. Clearly he wasn’t going to drink the tea Mrs. Hudson had kindly left for them. With biscuits.

  
He wasn’t used to drinking tea, but since he was British now he figured it was a requirement. He picked up the cup and saucer. It was warm, and relaxing. Maybe he should drink this stuff more often. God knows he could use a little relaxation.

  
Dean practically cursed himself with that thought. He couldn't relax. He had to get back home, back to Sammy. Who knew what his little brother was going through right now? Dean had a job to do.


	2. The Adventure of the Switched Men

John’s head was pounding. Throbbing. His eyes hurt from the sunlight, and he had to force them open. He appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. And was he wearing flannel? None of this was making sense. Had he been drugged? It’s not the first time he’s woken up confused and in a strange place. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes meant that happened on occasion.

  
John scanned the area for Sherlock. Maybe he could shed some light on their situation, the know-it-all. He didn’t see the detective though. He doubted Sherlock would just up and leave him. Then again, maybe he did. He could never tell what the man was going to do next.

  
With an exasperated sigh and growing apprehension, John climbed to his feet. He could feel the weight of a gun on the small of his back. Good. The new outfit, however odd, came with protection. At least he was armed, and he could have some control. Although it honestly didn’t make him feel much better.

  
He felt his pockets, searching for a phone. His hands brushed over an object, and he fished it out. It was a phone, but not his own. There was another one in the next pocket over. It wasn’t his either. Why were there so many phones in his pockets? John needed to get a hold of Sherlock. He was debating on taking his chances with the isolated bunker or walking up the path in search of a road when he heard the bunker door open.

  
“Dean,” called out a long-haired man, also wearing plaid. “What are you doing?” John turned around to see if there was someone behind him. There wasn’t. It seemed the man was talking to him. John noticed he had an American accent, which confused him even more. Maybe he wasn’t even in England anymore. Had he been drugged long enough to travel to the States? Did they only wear plaid here? And who was Dean?

  
“I’m afraid you have me confused for someone else. I’m not Dean,” John told the man uncomfortably. His hand itched with the urge to grab the gun, but he was unsure if the American man carried one as well. It certainly wouldn’t benefit him to be trigger-happy right now.

  
The man immediately pulled out some sort of flask from his pocket and splashed its contents on John.

  
“What the-?” he asked, startled. He wiped off his face. “What’d you do that for?”

  
The man seemed to relax a little, but he took John by the shoulders and led him to the bunker door.

  
“I don’t know what’s up with you, but this isn’t funny, Dean,” the American scolded.

  
“I told you, I’m not Dean!” John said, raising his voice as he pushed the man away.

  
“I’m sorry, Sam,” a voice called from the doorway. “It appears Dean had a little too much to drink last night.” John looked up at the sound of the voice. Sherlock. John relaxed a little. At least he wasn’t alone in this.

  
“I didn’t think Dean could get drunk anymore,” the man called Sam scoffed. Sherlock laughed, and John could tell he was putting on an act. He didn’t know what was going on, but John figured it was in his best interest to play along. He stumbled a bit, acting drunk as he headed towards Sherlock and the bunker door.

  
“Let’s go, Dean,” Sherlock said, “helping” him through the door. “I’ll get him to his room,” he called to Sam. The American nodded and followed them inside.  
Playing a confused drunk was easy considering John had no idea where he was going. Sam was still within earshot, so he had to wait with his questions. And he had an awful lot. Instead, he took this time to get a good look at his surroundings, and, of course, Sherlock.

  
He had on a blue tie, which was strange. Sherlock said it himself, he didn’t wear ties. And his favorite scarf and coat were gone. He must feel unprotected without his battle armor. Then again, John didn’t really know. He still was trying to comprehend the detective’s feelings, and the fact that he had them, as he kept them well hidden. He insisted that sentiment is an aspect of the losing side and caring is not an advantage. John was often taken in surprise, however, by how much Sherlock did care. Sherlock Holmes was an enigma.

  
John quickly looked away, knowing that he had been staring for far too long and Sherlock had most likely noticed. He said nothing, however, as he guided John into an open room and closed the door behind them, effectively shutting out Sam. Sherlock began pacing, moving fluidly about. John knew he was thinking, and probably wasn’t going to talk while he sorted out his thoughts.

  
John scanned the room. It seemed kind of impersonal, as it was lacking in furniture and such. It barely looked lived in. Or maybe he was just used to Sherlock’s cluttered belongings taking up space. This Dean certainly had a love for guns, though.

  
“I assume you have questions?” Sherlock asked, interrupting John’s thoughts.

  
“Yeah, a few.”

  
Sherlock nodded. “So do I.” This shocked John. Sherlock never admitted he didn’t know something. This did nothing for John’s concerns. If Sherlock couldn’t figure it out, who could?

  
“Sam,” Sherlock began, “must be delusional. It’s the only explanation. Possibly religious, more likely schizophrenic. He has to be.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than John.

  
“How so?” John asked, trying to get Sherlock’s attention as he paced about.

  
“He hunts.”

  
John blinked. “So? A lot of people hunt, Sherlock.”

  
“It’s not that. It’s what he hunts. He believes he hunts monsters.”

  
“Like, murderers and such?”

  
“No, John,” Sherlock said, turning around to look him in the eyes. “People he believes to be ghosts, vampires, boogeymen and so on.”

  
“And anyone he thinks a monster…” John said, bracing for the answer.

  
“He kills,” Sherlock finished. John winced. What kind of person would do such a thing? And believe in such nonsense? They were scary stories just to pass the time.

  
“What do we do?” John asked. Not that he really needed to ask, as Sherlock had no qualms about ordering him around.

  
“We play along,” Sherlock answered with a smile. “This is the most interesting case we’ve had in weeks.”

  
John sighed. He had figured as much. It wouldn’t even be worth arguing, as the detective usually got his own way. “Sherlock, I don’t even know this bloke Dean. This won’t work.”

  
“Of course it will, as long as you don’t screw it up with words like that again. Americans don’t say bloke. Sam doesn’t seem to notice our accents, which can probably be attributed to his delusional mind cutting in, but a word like that can tip him off that something’s wrong. You’ll need to be more careful.”

  
“Right, fine,” John said. It would be for the best if Sam didn’t figure it out, as he must be unstable.

  
“Okay, so you, John, are Dean, the brother of Sam. This means that you hunt with him, clear by the gun tucked in your pants. Notice I said pants, not trousers.” John rolled his eyes. “Anyway, lucky for you, this bunker is filled to the brim with books on how to kill monsters. I suggest you read them.”

  
“I’m not hunting people with him, Sherlock,” John said, giving him a hard look.

  
“Of course, just keeping up appearances. If you won’t read them, fine. Bottom line is salt works for most things, as it’s known to be a purifier. And when in doubt, it seems, stab it.”

  
“Sherlock,” John warned. Actual people had died at the hands of these two brothers this way. He was being too calm about their situation, and it put John on edge. He should not be the only one freaking out over this.

  
“Dean, according to his brother, is absolutely obsessed with his car. Most likely because of sentimentality, going by the number of times it has been rebuilt and repaired. And judging by the odometer, they certainly spend a lot of time in there. I believe they drive to wherever the nearest hunt is.”

  
That would explain the emptiness of the room. Although there did appear to be some photographs peeking out from under a clipboard on the desk, next to an empty pie tin. John made a mental note to check those out later.

  
“And how exactly do you fit in?” John asked.

  
“I seem to be a close friend named Cas. However, for some reason I don’t have a gun on me. Perhaps I aid with research and not actual hunting.”

  
John nodded. That made sense. They would need someone to leaf through all of those books for research.

  
“I also-“ Sherlock began, but was cut off by a sharp knock on the door.

  
“Everything alright in there?” Sam called. John froze. He was unsure of whether or not he should answer, since he doubted his ability to act nonchalant around this man now that he knew about the murders.

  
“Oh, yes,” Sherlock replied calmly, his dramatic acting face reappearing. “I just think Dean needs some time to rest.”

  
Sam gave an awkward cough, for reasons John was unsure. Did Sam think that they were dating? Were Dean and Cas actually dating? Was that was Sherlock going to tell him next? John didn’t know what he would do if he had to pretend to be a couple with Sherlock.

  
“Yeah, you know, just drank a little too much,” he tried to say as smoothly as he could.

  
“Well you’ll have to get your four hours another time,” Sam replied. “I just caught whiff of a hunt. Grab your bag and let’s go.”

  
John turned towards Sherlock, panicked. There was no way, no possible way he was going to go kill some innocent civilian.

  
Sherlock noticed the look on the blogger’s face. No way was he going to let John mess this up, although he doubted he would. John’s bravery continued to astound him.

  
“Don’t worry, John,” he comforted. “We won’t let him kill anyone. We’ll mess up his hunt if we have to.”

  
John nodded. Yes, he could do this. Just until they figured out what had happened. Then they could return home, to London.

  
London.

  
“Sherlock,” John began, “how did we get here?”

  
He saw the discomfort in Sherlock’s face as the detective replied. “I don’t know. I don’t know how or why.”

  
John nodded. Great. It seemed Sherlock didn’t even have a theory. John suddenly felt very alone. But he was nothing if not determined, and he knew with Sherlock’s help they could make it home. Or at least he hoped.

  
Sherlock grabbed the duffel resting on the desk chair and headed out, John following close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me nervous as I get writer's block when it comes to sherlock. Anyway, hopefully I will be able to update every Monday. Hopefully. As always, please comment and review as your feedback is super important.


	3. The Scooby Doo Gang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Road So Far~Previously on A Very Supernatural Crossover:
> 
> He wasn’t used to drinking tea, but since he was British now he figured it was a requirement. He picked up the cup and saucer. It was warm, and relaxing. Maybe he should drink this stuff more often. God knows he could use a little relaxation.
> 
> Dean practically cursed himself with that thought. He couldn’t relax. He had to get back home, back to Sammy. Who knew what his little brother was going through right now? Dean had a job to do.

Dean needed to find a way back home to his brother. That meant he would have to find Gabriel first, and put an end to him once and for all. That man faked his own death more than anyone. This time, he would get it done right.

  
A beep came from Castiel’s coat. Cas pulled out the cell phone tucked into one of the pockets, seeing someone had texted him. Lestrade.

  
“Get to St. Aldate’s in Surrey,” he read aloud. “We’ve got something that might interest you. Kidnapping. Ambassador’s asked for you personally, Reichenbach Hero.” Cas looked up at Dean with a small shrug.

  
Dean wanted to get home as quickly as possible, but he was never one to turn down a job. Besides, it may be a part of Gabriel’s plan. He didn’t like it, but he figured the quicker they got it done the sooner he could get back. With a sigh, he nodded at Cas.

  
“Zap us there,” he said. “We’ll have to take a look. Could be a monster we need to gank.”

  
“Dean, I can’t,” Castiel said, looking down. “I am not an angel here. I have no powers.”

  
“Nothing? You have nothing?” Dean asked. “Are you sure?”

  
“Unfortunately, yes,” Cas said, still looking down. He felt so useless without his powers. “I am sorry.”

  
“Awesome,” Dean said sarcastically. Without Cas’s mojo, they were a lot more vulnerable. Plus it was inconvenient. He doubted the Impala made the trip with them. “And we don’t have Baby. Looks like we’re taking a cab.”

  
Dean felt his pockets for a wallet. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled it out and opened it up. It had some British money, but he didn’t know if it would be enough for a cab. Sammy would no doubt know the exchange rate. Again he wished his brother was with him. And he wished for his Baby. And he wished Cas was back to normal.

  
This was not going to be fun.

  
Dean nodded at Castiel and led the way out of the strange apartment. They walked out, saying a quick goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, who had reprimanded Sherlock, and thus, Cas. She told him not to have too much fun. Dean found that he really liked Mrs. Hudson, who was like the grandmother he never had.

  
Dean was faced with a new challenge. Calling a cab. He had never had to wave his hand and call out “Taxi!” before. And he didn’t want to. Cas was no help. He stood staring at the dismal London sky, ignoring Dean’s annoyed huffs. Many cabs drove right on through, leaving Dean behind. After a few frustrating minutes laced with swears and almost begging, a cab finally pulled over to the curb.

  
“Surrey,” he told the driver, climbing in. The driver simply nodded and pulled back out into traffic. It was strange being on the left side of the road, and London traffic was simply awful.

  
Cas watched Dean fidget in the back of the cab. He wanted to talk to Dean about their situation, but he was afraid to say anything that would tip off the driver that something was not right. He didn’t know what to say anyway. Cas did not have a solution, and Dean had said it before: without his powers he was basically a baby in a trenchcoat. It stung a little, but Dean was right. There was not much he could do. Castiel wanted nothing more than to save Dean and be there to help him. Though he thought himself useless, Cas promised he would do whatever it took to get Dean home.

  
Dean could feel Cas staring at him, but he did not say a word. He just looked back at him. Cas’s blue eyes seemed to be able to see straight through him, into his thoughts and feelings. It made Dean uncomfortable knowing how much Cas could see him, but he felt something else too.

  
He liked that Cas knew immediately when to ask him how he is feeling or try to comfort him. He never had to ask, which was nice because he never would. As much as he hated chick-flick moments, he liked that Cas was there for him. He did not know what exactly to call this feeling. It felt even stronger than friendship.

  
The cab slowed to a stop in front of a building, St. Adalate’s. Dean realized he had spent the entire ride basically having a staring contest with Cas. Embarrassed, he quickly hopped out of the car. Dean handed a sizable chunk of the wad of money in John’s wallet to the driver, hoping it was enough. The way the driver had greedily snatched at it, Dean guessed it was probably more than he should have given.

  
A man with grayed hair and a cup of coffee in his hand hurried out to greet them. Police were all over the place. Awesome. Dean had a special hatred for most police officers, who always got in the way. Except for Jody, of course.

  
“Glad you’re here, Sherlock. This case has us all thrown for a loop,” said the man. “I really need you.”

  
“Happy to help, Greg,” Cas replied to the man who must have been Lestrade.

  
“Since when have you called me Greg?” Lestrade said, looking confused. “And no insult either? Are you alright?” He glanced toward Dean. Or, as he saw, John.  
Dean gave a little what-can-you-do shrug, hoping that was something John, er, Watson would do. Dean had quickly realized he did not want to call Watson ‘John.’ After spending all of his life trying to be like his father, he certainly didn’t want to spend anymore time pretending to be a John.

  
Cas glanced around St. Adalate’s. Even though he wasn’t an angel at the moment, he still expected to be able to see demons crawling around these parts. He didn’t. Was that because he lost his mojo, or because in this world there were no monsters, to quote Dean, to “gank.” This thought worried him. If there was nothing supernatural here at all, that would make getting home a lot more difficult.

  
Lestrade had noticed these two men zoning out, but he didn’t say anything. He was used to Sherlock going hours without speaking, and he was not be surprised that some of that rubbed off on John.

  
“That’s Ms. Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy,” Lestrade warned. Dean realized Sherlock must be something of a dick to people. A lot of people seemed to comment on this. Cas was going to have to step it up to be believable.

  
Dean nodded and walked towards the older woman sitting on a car. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and looked a little shaken up. Frail, even.  
“You’re going to have to be ruder if people are going to believe you’re Holmes, understand?” Dean whispered to Cas, who had fallen into step at his side. It was so natural, Cas’s place next to him.

  
“Hello, Ms. Mackenzie,” Cas greeted as they approached the woman, unable to answer Dean. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. Can you tell me what happened?”  
Dean groaned internally. That was not like Sherlock. But he couldn’t really be bothered to care, noticing the smile on Cas’s face. It reminded him of when Cas wanted to be a hunter and pretended to be FBI. He wasn’t the best, but it was worth seeing his grin whenever he said “Agent.”

  
“All of the windows were properly bolted,” said Ms. Mackenzie. “No one- not even me- went into their room last night. When I went to wake them up, they were gone.”

  
Dean nodded. Demons could easily have snatched the children away. Maybe ghosts, too. He hadn’t noticed any sulfur smell yet, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. He didn’t have his EMF detector with him, either. He felt so naked without his equipment. The single gun that Watson carried was not going to do the trick against a monster.

  
Cas, however, seemed to have a different idea. “Was there any time beforehand in which a someone could have snuck in?”

  
Ms. Mackenzie nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose someone could have, seeing as the day before was the end of the term. A lot of parents were around, picking up their children.”

  
“Thank you,” Castiel said curtly, gesturing towards Dean to talk alone. Dean excused himself from Ms. Mackenzie’s side and followed Cas, away from the officers.

  
“I don’t think this is the work of anything supernatural, Dean,” Cas told him. “I think it’s Moriarty.”

  
“The guy who sort of kills you?” Dean asked. “Is this in the books?”

  
“No, it’s a different take. One of the reporters when we first came here mentioned Moriarty, and Greg called me the ‘Reichenbach Hero.’”

  
“That doesn’t mean Moriarty’s not a demon,” Dean said, glancing around. He didn’t usually do jobs where crazy people were the monsters. He made work of the Benders, but that was because they attacked him. If Moriarty wasn’t a demon, he didn’t know what they would do here.

  
Dean, deep in thought, didn’t notice when Lestrade walked up. Trying to make it seem like he wasn’t itching for his demon blade, he shoved his hands into Watson’s jacket pockets.

  
“Let’s go see their rooms,” Lestrade told them. He led them into the school. Searching the rooms did not help Dean any, not when there wasn’t any sign of something supernatural. He felt useless.

  
“What, no amazing ideas yet,” the Forensics man called Anderson taunted. “The great Sherlock Holmes, unable to solve the mystery?”

  
“Shut up, Anderson,” Dean said curtly. The other officers in the room to stop and look at him strangely, but he didn’t care. He pulled Cas out of the room and walked quickly towards the building’s exit. Cas didn’t deserve any of that crap.

  
They were halfway down the stairs outside when they heard a yell for them to wait. Lestrade had been following, and hurried quickly towards the two men.  
“Got any ideas?” the DI asked Cas. “You’ve been awful quiet.”

  
Castiel coughed. “Um, yes I have a few. But, um, I will need to do some more investigating work before…” he trailed off.

  
Lestrade nodded. “Sure, sure. Just, uh, let me know.” He glanced at Dean again questioningly, but Dean had no answers for him. “Maybe we should head back to Scotland Yard, yeah?”

  
“That’s great, yeah,” Dean agreed. “Will you give us a ride?” As much as he hated cops, he did not want to go through that whole dance of trying to get a taxi to stop again.

  
“In my police car?” Lestrade scrunched up his face in confusion. “But Sherlock hates riding in the police car, absolutely refuses.”

  
Dean glanced worriedly at Cas. He didn’t have an answer, and he doubted his friend did. He was not the best at playing it smoothly.

  
“We’ll take a cab,” Cas said adamantly, trying to cover Dean’s slip up. He swiftly turned and walked toward the street, hearing Dean follow him.

  
Cas put out a hand, immediately catching the attention of a passing driver, who pulled over to the curb. Dean watched, not believing his eyes. Not fair, Dean thought. Then again, Cas looked so freaking dominating, that it would be hard not to fall under his control, let him take over.

  
Wait, what? Of course Cas was authoritative, he was a warrior in a garrison and even God for some time. Cas has taken down more demons and monsters than almost anyone. It was normal. So why was he liking it so much?

  
“I did not think it was that difficult.” Cas smirked at Dean as he gestured towards the cab.

  
“Shuddup.”

  
The ride to Scotland Yard was a silent one, as neither of the men had any ideas where the missing children could be. This wasn’t the same as the book, so they couldn’t rely on Cas’s newfound knowledge of pop culture.

  
Lestrade met them outside and they walked together up to his office. He seemed to have dropped his suspicions about their strange behavior. He had a case to work on that was much more important, and he needed total focus on that.

  
Dean, Cas, Lestrade, and a woman -Donovan, Dean believed Lestrade called her- stood still in the office. Donovan kept sneering at Cas, but Lestrade shushed her with a warning glare. She did not look happy about this, not that Dean was surprised. No one around here seemed to like Sherlock, except for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and of course Watson.

  
Dean understood this, having few close friends. He didn’t understand why these people liked Sherlock. He settled for believing maybe Sherlock wasn’t as big of a dick as he was made out to be.

  
Cas turned to look through the window, at a building across the street. It was dark, but suddenly three rooms lit up. IOU was painted in red, one letter on each window. As quickly as they had brightened, the rooms were darkened once more. It seemed rather ominous, and to be honest Cas did not like the sound of that.  
“John?” Cas asked. “Join me for a trip to the, uh, vending machine?”

  
Donovan snickered. Cas did not see what was so funny. Dean glared at her and the two left the office, walking until they found an empty room, which Dean promptly pulled Cas into.

  
“What’s up Cas?” Dean asked, hopeful. “You got something?”

  
“Please,” called a singsong voice from the corner of the room. “As if you two yahoos could solve this. Cas here isn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes.”

  
Dean and Cas whirled around, startled by the sudden presence. Dean recognized that voice-

  
“Gabriel,” said Cas, glaring threateningly at the archangel. He unconsciously stepped in front of Dean, shielding him from his brother.

  
“What the hell?” Dean asked. “What kind of crap game are you playing now?”

  
Gabriel just waggled his eyebrows. “How’s the Scooby-Doo gang holding up?”

  
“We are not playing this,” Dean insisted. “Take us home, now.”

  
“But what about these two poor kidnapped children? Who will help them?” Gabriel asked, pouting, pretending as if this thought made him inconsolably sad. This just fueled Dean’s anger.

  
“We can’t solve this,” Dean said, voice raising. “We gank monsters. Like you.”

  
“Whoa, there Dean-o,” Gabriel said, smiling. “Let’s be a little reasonable. How about I offer some assistance.”

  
“Why would you help us?” Cas asked. Something about this did not sit right with him, and Dean’s narrowed eyes conveyed the same thought. They couldn’t trust him.

  
“You think I like seeing two children die?” Gabriel said, placing his hand over his chest as if he couldn’t bear the thought. “I have my reasons. You want my help or not?”

  
Dean glanced at Cas. He really, really did not want to trust Gabriel. But they were already stuck in his game anyway. And these were kids, even if they weren’t necessarily real outside of Gabriel’s world. Cas nodded back at Dean, understanding what was going through the man’s head.

  
“Fine,” Dean relented. He would still be on guard though. He would not let the angel trick him again.

  
“Try the deserted candy factory in Addlestone. The candy’s good, but not the one’s the children have been eating. Too much mercury for me.”

  
“And how do we know you’re telling the truth?” Dean asked, his glare still fixed on the angel.

  
Gabriel waggled his eyebrows once again and vanished.

  
“Damn it,” Dean cursed.

  
“We had better tell Lestrade,” Cas told the man. They hurried back up to the office.

  
“Where have you two been?” the DI asked. Then he shook his head. “Never mind that. This fax arrived an hour ago." Dean took the paper, and read the writing scrawled across the front.

  
HURRY UP THEY’RE DYING


	4. How Sherlock Learned A Trick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Road So Far~Previously on A Very Supernatural Crossover:
> 
> “Sherlock,” John began, “how did we get here?”
> 
> He saw the discomfort in Sherlock’s face as the detective replied. “I don’t know. I don’t know how or why.”
> 
> John nodded. Great. It seemed Sherlock didn’t even have a theory. John suddenly felt very alone. But he was nothing if not determined, and he knew with Sherlock’s help they could make it home. Or at least he hoped.  
> Sherlock grabbed the duffel resting on the desk chair and headed out, John following close behind.

John missed his jumpers. And Sherlock’s dark coat. And the flat and his gun and tea. John needed some tea. He did not like this adventure, not one bit.

 

This would be a great addition to his blog, though, he would have to admit. Once Sherlock figured this whole mess out.

 

Sherlock placed his bag in the trunk of the car. His mind was racing with ideas, but none of them fit. It would take more than  mere observations to figure this out. He wanted to use his mind palace, but he doubted Sam would accept that as usual behavior. The man was already eyeing the two of them strangely. This would not do, not at all.

 

“Let’s go, then,” Sherlock said opening up the shotgun door to the car. He stopped when he noticed Sam watching him in confusion.

 

Sam said nothing. If he was going to be booted to the back seat, then so be it. Then he noticed Dean moving towards the back seat. Right. Dean was in no condition to be driving.  It was odd, seeing Dean not even put up a fight to drive Baby or even take shotgun. He must really be out of it.

 

Sam nodded and took the keys from Cas’s already outstretched hand. When had he grabbed those? Dean had willingly given Cas his keys. Something was really wrong. Sam was not happy to note that Dean must be lying to him, keeping secrets. Again.

 

The car ride was sat out in silence as Sam tried to think of what Dean could possibly even be lying about. He did not like the way his imagination immediately filled his mind with thoughts of death. That was usually how it went, however. When the Winchesters lied, people died.

 

God, that was a terrible thought. And it rhymed. Like it was their slogan or something. Sam needed something else to think about. Now.

 

“So, the job,” Sam began, desperate to end the silence that was filled only by his thoughts. “I already told Cas a little about it. Looks like vampire.” He noticed Dean in the backseat immediately stiffen. “Don’t worry, only a rogue, probably. Too few for a hive, so at least we won’t have to worry about that. But there’s something else, too. I can’t figure it out.”

 

John could only grimace. How many people had died at the hands of these men? And why had they not been caught yet? He glanced at Sherlock, who was staring intently out the window. It wasn't like him to be so quiet on a case like this, but John knew he was listening carefully to every word Sam said.

 

“Not all of the vics were killed by vampire,” Sam continued. “Most dropped in completely ordinary ways. But always in the same spot. Always by this river.”

 

This was crazy. He shouldn't be sitting in a car with a maniac. John should be calling the police, no matter how much Sherlock groaned. Curiosity and danger be damned.

 

He had a phone in his pocket. A couple, actually. It would be so easy to just pick it up and make the call. So why weren't his fingers moving for it? Why could he not make his hands comply?

 

John was supposed to be the one who told Sherlock when something was wrong, or bad. He was supposed to be the one with the moral compass. And this was bad, really bad. He knew it.

 

The sun began to set slowly, filling the sky with lovely oranges and pinks. Not that any of them were enjoying it. The trio arrived at a very shady bar that John definitely did not want to walk into. It looked as if he could contract a disease just breathing in the air near the building. He thought it seemed fitting for this maniac.

 

Sam stopped the car and opened up the trunk, pulling out a myriad of weapons and handing some to John. A long blade. More ammo. And a syringe filled with something.

 

Blood.

 

John took the items into his hands and tried placed them in his many pockets. He couldn't decide if he was more horrified with the murder tools he held or the nauseating bar he would be entering.

 

Even Sherlock seemed to be having a hard time keeping the disgust off his face as they neared the entrance, which John thought was odd. Sherlock had probably been in drug dens worse than this. Sam opened up the door, with Sherlock following closely behind and swinging in as to not touch the door. This left the door to close right in front of John. Using his jacket sleeve, he tugged quickly on the handle and barreled through, hoping not to be forced to touch the door again.

 

The people in the bar, if it could even be called such, seemed to ignore his odd entrance. They seemed to ignore a lot, actually. It was much quieter than it should be in a bar. No loud drunks or music or even conversation above hushed whispers.

 

John wanted to reach for his gun.

 

He was glad to see he was not the only one feeling put off. Sam eyed the room and the two of them frantically, as he sat in a booth at the very end corner. He looked as if he was waiting for something to happen, something to fight. John watched Sherlock’s eyes dart around the room, picking up information about God knows what.

 

Sam pulled out his laptop without looking down at his bag, still watching the room. “You two have been quiet,” he whispered. Any louder and the whole bar would be able to hear the whole conversation.

 

John had no reply. Usually Sherlock would take over this part, quickly fabricate a believable lie that would both satisfy and confuse whoever was questioning them. But Sherlock stayed silent, still running all of the facts through his head, John supposed.

 

“Thinking about the case,” John nodded. “Tell me more.”

 

Sam nodded and opened up his laptop, with some websites pulled up. John was surprised this hellhole had Wi-Fi.

 

“Some killings have taken place here over the past few weeks,” Sam began. “Disappearances too. Though apparently that happens a lot around these parts. I didn't think they’d take too well to some FBI agents showing up here asking questions, so we’re just drifters passing through.”

 

FBI. Sam impersonated the FBI. Luck was on John’s side. He didn't need to add anymore felonies to add to this experience.

 

Not really luck, then, but small blessing. There were still a lot of illegalities tallying up on this case. Like accessory to murder.

 

If Sam noticed John’s panicking with that thought, he didn't say anything about it. “I can’t figure it out," he continued. I did some research while waiting for you to get over your drunkenness and pack your crap, but I've got absolutely nothing. Best plan of attack right now is find the vamp, then see if it knows about these other deaths.”

 

“Cas and I’ll check the river,” John said, standing up quickly. The sooner he could get out of here and talk to Sherlock, the better.

 

Sam eyed him strangely but nodded. “I’ll see what I can get out of these drunkards. The river is just south of here.”

 

John nodded, grabbing Sherlock’s arms and pulling him towards the door. He used his jacket sleeve to open it and, once again, Sherlock swung through the doorway without touching it.

 

“Tell me you've got something,” John said. “Anything. One idea.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, already walking away. “We look at the river.”

 

“That’s it,” John followed, incredulous. “We look at the river?”

 

“It’s our best bet at the moment.” Sherlock continued. “I will figure it out, John.”

 

“I know you will. You always do.”

 

John’s faith in the detective always brought a smile to Sherlock’s face. He would solve this case and get John safely out of America, back to their flat with more dangerous crimes a little closer to home. He still had Moriarty to think about, who no doubt was causing more trouble. And Sherlock was missing it.

 

He should call the police right now. Have this Sam character arrested, get back home. But he just couldn't. This case was just too interesting to pass up. And for some odd reason, he physically felt unable to even try.

 

He needed to solve this case first.

 

A thousand ideas flew through his mind, more being created and discarded every second. His mind palace offered no help. There was just too much. So he kept walking, focusing instead on the wonder that was John Watson, the man who continued with him through moments that seemed like the very end.

 

Sherlock thought about his last visit with Moriarty. How the man had strapped a bomb to John, ready to end his fragile life. How he had almost lost John. He would not let something like that happen again.

 

Darkness had fallen over the two. John pulled out his torch-no, flashlight- just as they arrived at the riverbed. He shone the light on the water and the rocky sands. There was nothing there.

 

A phone in John’s jacket buzzed with a call. Sam. Sherlock snatched the phone out of John’s hand and answered, ignoring John’s huff.

 

“Yes?”

 

“No one here seems to be talking,” Sam sighed. “They all know something, though. I’m sure of it. You got anything?”

 

“If I did I would have called you,” Sherlock replied. “Obviously.”

 

“Right. Well, I’m almost there now. I’ll check around too.”

 

“If I haven’t found anything,” Sherlock stated, “I highly doubt you will.”

 

Sam laughed. “Yeah, well, I still wanna see with my own eyes, Cas. Be there soon.”

 

Sherlock hung up the phone and returned it to John. This case was proving to be very tricky indeed, but perhaps a look from Sam’s point of view would be helpful. Although he believes it to be vampires. Clearly the man had heard too many bedtime stories as a child.

 

“Well?” John asked impatiently, when it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to fill him in.

 

“Sam is on his way,” Sherlock said curtly, studying the sand illuminated by John’s flashlight. Nothing there. But maybe that rock-

 

John moved the flashlight, away from the rock Sherlock was looking at. Irritating.

 

“John, shine that thing over here,” Sherlock said, peering closer at it. Nothing again.

 

“Sherlock.” John said, voice tight and whispered. That single word was all it took for Sherlock to move into panic mode.

 

He was immediately next to John again, looking at what the man had seen and pointed his flashlight at.

 

It was a woman.

 

She was dressed in green. She did not seem like she was there to harm them, but she was hideous. Familiar too. She appeared to be washing something in the river water.

 

John had his gun in his hand, but Sherlock doubted it would be needed. Still, he approached the woman cautiously.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock said slowly as he walked nearer. The woman gave no reply. Still he inched closer and closer until he could see the ugly wrinkles and even a protruding tooth. And what she was washing.

 

It was his coat. His long, dramatic dark coat.

 

“Where did you get that?” Sherlock said, panic rising up in his throat. He pointed at his coat, being dipped and scrubbed in the water. “Answer me. Where did you get that?”

 

He was suddenly aware of John at his side.

 

“Sherlock,” John warned. “How did she-?”

 

“Impossible. Impossible,” Sherlock said. “Improbable. Or-”

 

The woman looked up at them. “You,” she whispered. Her face twisted, and she let out a blood-chilling scream.

 

Sherlock was suddenly knocked down, a body on top of him. He heard John fire his gun, but somehow the body on top of him was not hit.

 

Sherlock tried to make sense of the situation, but there was so much. The scream and John shouting and the gunshots and the darkness and the force on top of him pinning him down and the pain-

 

Sherlock heard the scream, and a thump. He felt weight falling off of him. Then he felt no more.

 

John quickly tossed aside the long blade he had used to-

 

No, he would not think about what he just did. Or the head or the separated body-

 

Sherlock. He focused on Sherlock, blocking out his surroundings. There was so much blood. And Sherlock was not moving. Not breathing.

 

It was his fault his fault his fault-

 

“Dean?” called a worried voice, but John did not even register it. Nor did he register Sam running up to them.

 

“Well, I guess that takes care of the vampire,” Sam breathed. John said nothing, only letting out a pathetic whimper.

 

“What’s wrong with Cas?” Sam asked, kneeling down next to him.

 

“That creature…”John couldn't even finish that sentence. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.

 

“The vamp?”

 

“It killed him.” John breathed out. “I shot it but it wouldn't die.”

 

“Dean, if it was just the vamp, shouldn't he heal, or-”

 

“This is reality, Sam,” John fumed, suddenly angry rather than despondent. “This isn’t make-believe land where monsters are real and you’re the hero saving people because there are no heroes and if there were you wouldn't be one, but he would. Sherlock would,” John sobbed. “He’s won’t heal, Sam.” He covered his face with his hands.

 

“Dean, what are you talking about?” Sam asked, confused and concerned.

 

“Yes, Dean, are you alright?” said another voice. John looked up, disbelieving.

 

Sherlock was sitting up, looking back at him.

 

“What? How did you-?” John stammered. “But you were dead.”

 

“Were being the imperative word,” Sherlock said, as calm and condescending as always. But there was fear and confusion in his eyes, mirroring John’s. He didn't know what was going on either.

 

John threw his arms around Sherlock, holding him in his arms. A bit awkwardly, as they had never hugged with such intensity before.

 

It was impossible that Sherlock had come alive again. But if anyone could come back from the dead, John supposed, it would be Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Dean & Cas Vs. Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Road so Far~Previously on A Very Supernatural Crossover:
> 
> “Try the deserted candy factory in Addlestone. The candy’s good, but not the one’s the children have been eating. Too much mercury for me.”
> 
> “And how do we know you’re telling the truth?” Dean asked, his glare still fixed on the angel.
> 
> Gabriel waggled his eyebrows once again and vanished.
> 
> “Damn it,” Dean cursed. 
> 
> “We had better tell Lestrade,” Cas told the man. They hurried back up to the office.
> 
> “Where have you two been?” the DI asked. Then he shook his head. “Never mind that. This fax arrived an hour ago.” Dean took the paper, and read the writing scrawled across the front.
> 
> HURRY UP THEY’RE DYING

“Addlestone. Abandoned candy factory,” Dean told them. “We gotta go, now.” He began moving towards the door, when a hand took hold of his arm and pulled him back.

 

“Hold on, now,” Lestrade said, releasing Dean’s arm and looking towards Cas. “How did you figure this out?”

 

“Does it matter? Sherlock’s smart, he knows stuff. Come on,” Dean urged. Ridiculous cops, always getting in the way. Did they not realize lives were at stake here? “Go now, ask questions later.”

 

“No, no,” Lestrade insisted, gesturing at the two men. “Something is going on here. You two are acting different.”

 

“I don’t know, he still seems like a freak to me, “ Donovan interjected, suddenly appearing behind Lestrade. She appeared to have the uncanny ability to do this at the worst possible times.

 

“Donovan,” Lestrade warned. He would never get answers with her here. Sherlock would just reply with a biting remark, turn up his coat collar, and waltz out the door. But he did none of these things.

 

“Sherlock is not a freak,” Dean defended quickly, voice low and resolute. “He is a better person than you will ever be, bitch.” He stared her down and for once, she was speechless.

 

John had never said anything like this to her before.

 

Cas gave Dean a grateful nod, though that wasn’t really necessary. He went up against archangels and Horsemen, demons and Leviathans. Petty human insults meant nothing to him. Not that he was complaining about the Dean’s protective response. He actually quite liked it, and a surge of satisfaction flowed through him.

 

Dean Winchester was a force of nature.

 

“As I was saying,” Lestrade continued, eyes darting back and forth between the two men and the now shell-shocked woman, “I may not be as bloody brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, but I know when someone’s trying to pull the wool over my eyes. So tell me, now.”

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dean muttered under his breath. They didn’t have time for this, and he certainly didn’t have any explanation for the man. Telling normal people about who they were and what they did generally didn’t end well. He would be called crazy and threatened most likely.

 

“Are you truly putting children’s lives on hold for this?” Cas stepped in, speaking up. He fixed a steely glare on the Detective Inspector, daring him to argue. Too much time had been wasted already. “I will explain later.”

 

Lestrade nodded. “We will be talking about this later,” he said, pointing at Cas, trying his best to look stern.

 

“Of course,” Dean said, impatient. Then he was already out the door. Cas gave a curt nod to Lestrade and made his way out the door as well.

 

“Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” Donovan asked, disapproving.

 

“Honestly, yes,” Lestrade replied, staring at the door long after the two men had passed through it, ignoring Donovan’s indignant huff. “I don’t think he’s really himself at the moment. Sherlock, too.”

 

“Do you think something happened,” Donovan asked, “you know, between them?”

 

“If not, I think it is only a matter of time.”

 

 

 

The ride to Addlestone was a long one. London traffic. Lestrade kept looking in his rearview mirror the two men in the backseat. Dean squirmed in his seat. They had spent far too much time yapping and playing games. He could only hope it was not too late.

 

“Dea-John,” Cas sort-of-whispered, breaking the silence in the car. It was clear he was trying to be quiet, but he had not yet mastered the art of whispering. Subtlety was never his strong suit. “It’s going to be alright.” He gave Dean a look that rivaled Sam’s puppy dog eyes, if that was even possible.

 

Lestrade looked back at them again, and Donovan snickered in the front seat. Dammit. Dean did not enjoy being laughed at, at least when he wasn’t trying to be funny. _Would this car ride ever end?_ He missed Baby now more than ever.

 

Maybe he should have tried for a cab again. Not that he wanted a repeat of that annoyance. But anything was better than the peering eyes of the Detective Inspector and his lackey.

 

“I know, don’t worry about me,” Dean replied, trying to mask all traitorous emotion that was threatening to make an appearance on his face. That would bring a pity-look from everyone around him, breaking his resolve. He couldn’t handle pity.

 

Cas never pitied him. Never. Cas always told him like it is. If anything, Cas just made Dean want to pick himself up and focus more. If that made any sense. He often thought about Cas in moments like these on the job, how he would respond and squint his eyes. His freaking eyes-Dean didn’t even know a word for the color, but just plain “blue” would never do.

 

He often pictured those eyes watching over him. They made him feel safe. Protected. Cared for, even. Looking into those eyes almost made him forget the constant dull pain that he tried so hard to push down.

 

Only another snicker from Donovan brought Dean out of his fog of thoughts. He had been staring into Cas’s eyes again. Freaking again. God, there was something wrong with him. With a “Shuddup” to Donovan, he turned and faced out the window again, not daring to let himself think about Cas. He didn’t need that distraction right now.

 

 _Kidnapped children,_ he reminded himself.

 

 

 

Accompanied by others, the police car pulled into the driveway of the large factory. The car had barely pulled to stop before Dean was out the door and running. The police followed suit, carrying flashlights and guns.

 

Cas wished he could fly again. He was not a fan of running.

 

Dean burst through the door of the factory, running and calling out for the kids. There was no response. As he darted in between the large machines, he worried more and more that he was too late, that there would be more names to add to the list of “People Who Died Because of Him.”

 

A shout from Donovan eased his worries. She found the kids. They would be alright, brought home safely.

 

The children were already being carried away by the time Dean reached them. He looked around for Cas instead, who was squatting on the ground, studying the candy wrappers littered on the floor, eyes squinted.

 

“Gabriel said something about mercury poisoning,” Dean said, patting Cas on the shoulder. “This is pretty sick stuff. Who does this to children?”

 

“Yes,” Cas agreed, rising onto his feet. “Sometimes the monsters men should fear the most are men themselves.”

 

Dean rubbed his neck. “I don’t know, Cas. Almost all monsters are bad, but there are good men and bad men, heroes and villains. Most are in between.”

 

“And which category are we in, Dean?” Cas asked, fixing his gaze on Dean. “Hero, villain, or monster?”

 

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Dean answered. “We are not monsters. You are not a monster. Sometimes we all make mistakes, but you’re a hero if there ever was one, even if you’re not human.”

 

“And yourself?” Cas persisted. He tried to ignore the sense of pride he felt.

 

“I’m just a man.” Dean turned away.

 

“That’s not-” Cas began, cut off by the sound of Lestrade’s voice.

 

“You need a ride to Scotland Yard?” Lestrade asked, glancing back and forth between the two men.

 

“Thanks,” Dean replied, “but I think we’ll just take a cab back to the-um, flat for a while.” He knew the case wasn’t over, not yet, but he needed sleep. And food. If he did not get a burger into his system right now, there would be Hell to pay.

 

Lestrade’s eyes continued to dart between them for a moment until he responded with a nod and a halted “Right.” Even Cas squinted his eyes at Dean.

 

It was probably weird that “Sherlock” didn’t want to go and finish the case up, but at this point Dean honestly couldn’t be bothered to care. The kids were safe now, his job was done. Police could handle getting the human perps, Dean dealt with the supernatural ones.

 

Or that’s what he told himself. That didn’t stop him from having a bad feeling about this case. He got the impression it was far from over.

 

 

The cab ride back to 221B was a silent one. Dean watched the unfamiliar buildings and streets pass by. The city was teeming with people he didn’t know and probably never would. He was used to being an outsider to almost every city he passed through, but it offered little comfort. This was no ordinary job. Even back when he and Sammy were young they never tackled anything like this.

 

When had they gotten so old?

 

Dean handed over some more bills when the cab stopped. He refused to look at Cas as he trudged towards the door. He knew exactly what Cas would want to talk about.

 

Dean was right. As soon as the dark wooden door closed, Cas started right in.

 

“Dean, we need to talk,” he insisted.

 

“Cas, if you don’t mind, I’m not really in the sharing and caring kind of mood.” Dean walked up the stairs located between the ugly patterns of old wallpaper.

 

“Stop,” Cas said, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You don’t need to do that with me.” His eyes seemed to bore into Dean’s soul, which Dean had no doubt they could.

 

“Do what?” he asked, though he already knew.

 

“Push away,” Cas replied, “your feelings, me, everything. You don’t need to, and I would prefer if you didn’t.”

 

Dean tried to laugh it off. “I know, man,” he said with what was meant to be a chuckle but sounded much too sad and weak to be anything near that. He cringed with how pathetic he probably sounded.

 

“I don’t think you do,” Cas said, shaking his head. His voice was low but resolute. “You are not a bad man, Dean Winchester. I know you well enough to see that, even when you try to hide yourself from me. But you can’t hide, not really, because I see you. I’ve always seen you, and I’ve always known this.” Cas focused on him intensely, trying to make Dean understand.

 

This entire conversation was making Dean very uncomfortable. His life seemed to be increasingly loaded with chick-flick moments. Ones he wanted to avoid. He needed an out, a joke or something.

 

The silence had gone on too long. Dean needed to say something. Anything.

 

“Cas, I-” he began.

 

“Have quite a lot of explaining to do,” a voice from the top of the stairs interrupted. It came from a well-dressed man, whom, for no apparent reason, was carrying an umbrella. He eyed the two men below him, suspicious.

 

“Either you have gone to a lot of trouble to find a way to provoke me, which is in no way out of character for you, brother mine,” the man said, swinging his umbrella as he walked down the stairs, “Or something very improbable has occurred.” He stopped to look pointedly at Cas.

 

Cas gave a little shrug, but neither he nor Dean answered the man. Seeing that they were not going to respond, the man with the umbrella watched Cas. He seemed to be studying him, almost.

 

The man dropped his stoic expression, replacing it with one of confusion and worry. “You are not Sherlock Holmes,” the man stated.

 

“Of course he is,” Dean laughed, as if the idea was ridiculous. “Who else could it be?”

 

“Well, _Dean Winchester,_ I have a few ideas,” the man answered, as if expecting praise or amazement. Dean was not impressed. The man heard them talking, so what? This man clearly had no idea what was going on here, although he pretended to be all-knowing. Dean could see straight through that act.

 

“Oh really,” Dean smirked. “Like what?”

 

The man’s smiled faltered a bit, but still he answered. “Obviously there are some things that are kept hidden from me. Balance of probability is that I will not like them. So I suggest you answer all of my questions quickly and without restraint. I suggest you comply, for I regret to say I have people who can extract this information from you.”

 

“No extraction needed,” Dean replied smoothly. “Ask away, Bond.”

 

The man did not acknowledge Dean, but instead turned to Cas. “Where is Sherlock?”

 

“We don’t know,” Cas replied. “He could be in our reality, or maybe not.” The man nodded, surprisingly taking this in stride.

 

“In this reality, you needed to take on his appearance.” It was not a question, but a statement.

 

“We were put into this reality by Gabriel,” Cas explained. “I suppose he thought we needed to take on their appearances.”

 

“How do you plan on returning to your reality?” the man asked.

 

Dean eyed the man. He was way too calm and accepting. This was not normal.

 

“It would have to be the same way we came,” Cas answered. “I do not know of any other way besides Gabriel.”

 

“Alright, it’s our turn to ask the questions now,” Dean cut in. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

 

“I must say,” replied the man, “John is certainly preferable to you, Dean.”

 

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean said, impatient. “Answer the damn question.”

 

The man sighed. “Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British government, which is much less tiresome than being the older brother of Sherlock. That is a full-time job.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean muttered.

 

“I am here because of the little meeting I had with John a while back," Mycroft continued, "which he has not bothered to follow up on. Then, of course, I see that Sherlock and John have been engaging in some rather strange and troubling behaviors. Riding in police cars, returning home while a case remains unfinished, and acts of that sort.”

 

“How do you know all of this?” Cas asked.

 

“I keep tabs on Sherlock. He is my little brother, after all.”

 

Dean wished he could call Mycroft out on this, but all things considered Dean would probably do the same if he had that much power. He understood wanting to protect little brothers. “And why are you not freaking out over the whole ‘alternate realities’ thing?”

 

“I have accepted long ago that some things are inexplicable,” Mycroft replied. “My brother believes everything has a logical, neat little solution, that everything will always make complete sense. I am not deluded by this pipe dream.”

 

Dean blinked. Mycroft was probably the most rational being he had ever met.

 

“Odd, though,” Mycroft continued, “that now was the time chosen for this little stunt.”

 

“How so?” Cas asked.

 

“Sherlock has been battling with his most dangerous foe yet,” Mycroft replied, looking down. “So why pick now of all times to switch?”

 

Cas sighed. “I highly doubt it is coincidental.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “In the case of coincidence, the universe is rarely so lazy.”

 

Dean couldn’t help but wonder what that would mean for them.


	6. The Problem of Fiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Road So Far~Previously on A Very Supernatural Crossover:
> 
> It was impossible that Sherlock had come alive again. But if anyone could come back from the dead, John supposed, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

“How....how is this possible?” John breathed. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Sam replied. He picked up the long blade that had fallen to the ground. “Why did you call Cas ‘Sherlock?’”

 

“I’ll tell you when you tell me what the hell is going on here.”

 

“Dean, I don’t understand. Why are you freaking out?”

 

Sherlock tried to ignore the doubt and fear he felt, preferring to focus only on the facts. He looked at what had just attacked him.

 

It was a woman, blonde with a leather jacket although it was clear she didn’t ride a motorcycle, as there was no difference in the tan on her hands due to gloves. So it was for style, then. Then there was her makeup-

 

 _Obvious,_ Sherlock thought. He was getting too slow, too distracted. He had missed the obvious in his haste to collect the information. This woman was not the woman in green who had his coat and screamed at him.

 

So where was that woman?

 

He glanced around, but there was no trace of the woman ever being there. she left no tracks. He reached for his little magnifying glass but realized it was not with him.

 

It was back in London. In 221B, away from all these people and situations that didn’t make any sense. Back where there was logic and facts.

 

In the few seconds that it took for him to deduce all this, John and Sam had made no progress in coming to any sort of conclusions whatsoever. Their questions just increased in volume and frequency.

 

Sherlock found it rather annoying. They were asking the wrong questions.

 

“Where did the woman go?” Sherlock asked aloud, interrupting the two men.

 

Sam stopped and looked at Sherlock. “What woman?”

 

“Yes,” John said, “there was a woman sitting here, and she was...well, washing a coat.”

 

“My coat,” Sherlock added. “She screamed at me, pointed at me and screamed ‘You,’ but why? Why would she do that?”

 

Sam paused and scrunched up his nose in confusion. “I didn’t see anyone.”

 

“She didn’t attack me,” Sherlock continued, answering himself and speaking quickly. “She was trying to communicate, give me a message. A warning about the woman who was about to attack me? Or something else? She had my coat, and was washing it. Could be a coincidence, but we know what Mycroft says about that-”

 

“Whoa, hold on,” Sam interrupted. “Slow down, I can barely understand you. Who is Mycroft? And what does he have to do with this?”

 

John sighed. Sam seemed genuinely confused, and with what he had just witnessed, maybe the plaid-clad man wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe monsters were real. Maybe. It didn’t make sense, but he had no other explanation.

 

Maybe Sherlock drugged him again. Another experiment, like Baskerville, and maybe he hired an actor to really sell it. John wished that was the case. He actually wished that Sherlock didn’t listen to him and that it was all a ruse. God, he wished.

 

“First,” John stated, “you are going to tell me how it is possible that he’s alive.” He pointed at Sherlock, who was flitting about and studying the surroundings.

 

“He’s an angel,” Sam replied, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “A vampire is not going to kill him.”

 

“Right,” John scoffed. “I should have known I wouldn’t get a straight answer from you.” Vampires, maybe they could exist. He had just seen one with his own two eyes. But angels? This guy was still a loon. And would probably not be of any help at all.

 

John clenched his jaw and smiled, but it was not from happiness. No, this was his smile that was reserved for when he was furious. Enraged. It was a smile that hid the turbulence threatening to boil over, when he was barely holding on to the last fleeting remnants of a cool head.

 

Sam could see this in the man’s eyes, but really couldn’t be bothered to care. Something was up, and he had a bad feeling that Cas and Dean were caught in the middle of it. “I answered your question, now you answer mine. And you tell me what is going on here.” Sam met the man’s eyes with a steely gaze and thanked God he was still holding the blade in his hand.

 

“All right,” John replied, still smiling. “You want to know what is going on? I’ll tell you." He pointed at Sam. "You’re crazy. Sherlock and I are not Cas and Dean.” Sam gripped the blade tighter, his knuckles whitening. “I don’t know how we got here, or why, but I know this: You are insane, and we won’t let you hurt anyone else.”

 

“I’ve been called crazy before,” Sam replied, taking a fighting stance. “And believe me when I say you haven’t seen how crazy I can be. So tell me what you’ve done with my brother.”

 

“Your brother?” John asked, incredulous. He was shouting. “Your brother probably doesn’t even exist. Just like the rest of this ridiculous world you’ve thought up.”

 

“You don’t believe my brother, the person whose body you’re, _inhabiting_ , is real?” God, Sam was confused. And there didn’t appear to be a simple ending in sight. not that anything ever was that simple.

 

“It’s not-”

 

“John,” Sherlock cut in. “Listen to the man.”

 

“But-”

 

“Wait a second,” Sam said, looking back and forth between the two men in front of him. “Sherlock and John. And Mycroft.” He chuckled. “Somebody read too many detective stories as a child. Code names, right?”

 

“You have heard of me?” Sherlock asked. “I have an international reputation, but still, that’s strange.”

 

“They’re not code names,” John replied simultaneously.

 

“Of course I’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes,” Sam spat. “He’s only one of the most famous and prominent fictional characters in the world.”

 

“Fictional?” Sherlock repeated. “I assure you, I’m very real.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Sam replied. “Then what are you doing in Cas’s body?”

 

“I am not in Cas’s body, just his clothes.”

 

“Yet you seem to possess his powers,” Sam pointed out.

 

John rolled his eyes. “There are no powers. You’re delusional, and in my expert medical opinion you need to be-”

 

“I’m not delusional. I can prove it,” Sam said, gritting his teeth, “since his survival of a vampire attack was not enough for you.” He looked at Sherlock. “You have an angel blade you can pull out of thin air at will.”

 

“How?” Sherlock asked.

 

“You don’t actually believe him, Sherlock,” John said, incredulous.

 

Sam ignored John. “I don’t know, just concentrate.”

 

Sherlock nodded. _Come,_ he thought. _Appear. Materialize. Show yourself._ Nothing happened.

 

“See?” John said. “It didn’t work.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing. He fixated on this one thought, thinking over and over _appear appear appear appear._ He demanded it appear, willed it.

 

Then he felt something cold and heavy in his hand. Opening his eyes in surprise, he looked at the angel blade that had somehow manifested in his hold.

 

It wasn’t possible. It should not exist. Yet he could not deny his eyes or the feel of it in his hands. Doubt and fear clouded over him, his hands shaking. He needed a drink. Or multiple. Or something a little more potent.

 

“What the-” John said, his eyes widening in shock. “How did you-” He seemed unable to finish a sentence.

 

“You have wings, too,” Sam interjected. “But I wouldn’t try to bring those out. Might give yourself an aneurysm.”

 

“You’re awfully cheeky for someone who is about as clueless as us,” John retorted. “Put the blade down so we can talk like normal human beings.”

 

Sam loosened his grip and relaxed his stance a bit but did not put the blade down. “Then I guess it’s my turn to ask the questions.”

 

“I don’t think ours are really answered,” John said, glancing at Sherlock, who was staring intently at the blade in front of him.

 

“Too bad,” Sam replied. “Where’s Dean and Cas?”

 

“We honestly don’t know. We just woke up here.”

 

Sam nodded. “I believe you. What were you doing before this happened?”

 

John sighed. “We were just in our flat. Sherlock was in his mind palace and I was watching the telly.”

 

“Right,” Sam said. “And where is your flat?”

 

“London. It’s 221B, Baker Street.”

 

“And you don’t find that kinda weird?” Sam asked.

 

“Find what weird?”

 

“Okay,” Sam breathed. “Um, I think you guys should see something. It’s back at the bunker.”

 

John nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. “Let’s go, Sherlock.”

 

It snapped Sherlock out of his daze. “What about her?” He nodded towards the body.

 

“She’s dead,” Sam replied. “I’ll take care of it. Be right back.” He turned around walked towards the car, leaving Sherlock and John to themselves.

 

John looked at the girl he had killed. Decapitated. It scared him, really, to see what he had done. Even in war he had never decapitated someone.

 

“John,” Sherlock suddenly spoke up, “are you all right?”

 

“Yes, of course I’m alright,” John replied, confused. No harm had come to him. Sherlock was the one who had been attacked.

 

“Well, you have just killed a vampire,” Sherlock said, looking at John with a small and sad smile at the familiar exchange.

 

“Yes, I-” John realized what Sherlock was getting at. “That’s true, isn’t it? But she wasn’t a very nice vampire.”

 

Sam returned with a bag, which he set on the ground, and a tarp, which he wrapped around the body. He carried it off into the woods. John grabbed the bag and followed him, Sherlock close behind.

 

Sam stopped and set the body down. Once John had caught up, he pulled a shovel out of the bag and began digging. John pulled the other shovel out of the bag and got to work. Soon, the only sign of any disturbance that may have occurred was a slightly raised pile of dirt.

 

Without saying a word, the three men walked back to the Impala.

 

 

The drive back to the bunker gave Sam time to worry about his brother. What had happened to Dean? He didn’t even know how to begin looking for him. He knew that most likely John and Sherlock had most likely switched bodies with Dean and Cas, as the chances of possession by fictional characters were pretty slim. Still he doubted there was much research on how to reverse the body switching of fictitious and real people. He knew how that kid Gary used witchcraft to switch bodies with him, but Gary wasn’t a character.

 

Then it hit him. Only one person could be powerful enough to bring fiction to life like that, and have a motive for doing so.

 

Gabriel.

 

Sam knew he shouldn’t jump the gun, but it was pretty likely that it was the angel messing with them again. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gabriel had faked his death again.

 

Sam debated whether he should tell Sherlock and John. They hadn’t really reacted well to the whole angel thing, and he was afraid mention of another would put them over if the edge. If they asked if he had any theories, he would probably tell them about Gabriel, but he would not bring it up himself and put ideas in their heads without proof.

 

He looked in the rearview mirror. Sherlock was sitting completely still, his eyes closed and his fingers steepled beneath his chin. John looked out the window as he stretched his hand as if it was stiff. It was so strange seeing that they had the same faces and clothes as Dean and Cas, but completely different mannerisms.

 

 

 

“Follow me,” Sam said once they had arrived at the bunker. Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if he needed to be told this.

 

At least, that was what he was trying to convey. He had put his game face on for John, not wanting to worry him. He wanted to show John that this situation had not affected him. Truth be told, he did not trust himself to be able to move without these orders. He kept going into too deep of thought, and without the orders may not have even stirred.

 

Sam led the other two men into the gigantic library of the bunker, and then to a bookshelf. He pulled out a book and handed it to John. _A Study in Scarlet._ Then another. _The Sign of Four._ And more. _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The Hound of Baskervilles. The Return of Sherlock Holmes._

 

“That’s all we have,” Sam said soberly, “but there’s more.”

 

“I don’t understand,” John said, opening up a book. “Sherlock, these are our cases.”

 

“I see that.” Sherlock grabbed one of the books and began flipping through it. “They are slightly different.”

 

“Different interpretations, I guess. The stories were published in the late 1800s and early 1900s, while you’re clearly more modern than that,” Sam said. “I know this is a shock-”

 

“You’re telling me,” John interrupted. “I could use a shock blanket right about now. How were these published a hundred years ago?”

 

“Well,” Sam began, “here, you’re just fictional characters. Made up by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” He gave them a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to have to spring it on you like this.”

 

“Sorry?” John asked, not looking up from the book he was holding. “Sorry? How would you feel if someone had cataloged your life and made it into a book series?”

 

“Actually, I kinda know the feeling.”

 

“We need to get out of here,” Sherlock stated, snapping the book closed. “We clearly do not belong here.”

 

“Yes,” Sam agreed. “But we need to figure out what we’re dealing with first.”

 

“You mean, like the vampire and the woman in green?” John asked.

 

“Right now, I’m not so sure they’re the core problem here.”

 

“So what do we do?” John asked.

 

“Luckily for us,” Sam replied, “Dean and I happen to be the inheritors of the largest library of supernatural information to exist at the moment. So, we go through this like any other hunt. Research, and lots of it.”

 

John looked at the hundreds, probably thousands of books that surrounded him. “Great.”

 


	7. Nightmare on Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Road So Far~Previously on A Very Supernatural Crossover:
> 
> “Sherlock has been battling with his most dangerous foe yet,” Mycroft replied, looking down. “So why pick now of all times to switch?”
> 
> Cas sighed. “I highly doubt it is coincidental.”
> 
> “Yes,” Mycroft agreed. “In the case of coincidence, the universe is rarely so lazy.”
> 
> Dean couldn’t help but wonder what that would mean for them.

"So what do we do?" Dean asked.

 

Mycroft sighed. “I suggest you stay out of the way until the situation is handled. As I said before, you are not Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Believe it or not, we know how to handle ourselves in a fight,” Dean retorted.

 

“A fight like this you have not, I assure you,” Mycroft said with a roll of his eyes. “but please, do continue if you are so certain. I only stopped by to confer with my brother. Seeing as he is not here, I will be on my way.” He twirled his umbrella in his hand as he made his way to the door.

 

“Confer about what?” Cas asked, reaching out a hand to stop the man. Mycroft gave him a smirk and gestured at the door.

 

“If you would just come with me, we can sort all of this out.”

 

“No,” Dean argued. “We can talk here.” He studied the man’s face. He didn’t really trust Mycroft, and certainly did not want to blindly follow him anywhere.

 

“It’s not safe here,” he replied, and marched out the door without looking back. A black car had pulled up to the curb.

 

Dean sighed. “Come on, let’s go.” Mycroft probably had valuable information. They had to follow, but he didn’t have to like it. He took little comfort in the gun he carried.

 

“Only the man pretending to be Sherlock Holmes, if you please,” Mycroft said, using his umbrella to block Dean’s path.

 

“What? No way,” Dean argued, shoving the umbrella away. “I’m coming, too.”

 

“Your involvement could have dangerous consequences,” Mycroft insisted.

 

“I’m coming,” Dean stated. “If Cas is in that much danger, I need to know.” He fixed a glare on Mycroft.

 

Eyebrows raised, Mycroft looked down on Dean, condescending. Dean held his ground, raising his eyebrows back as if to say "Do not test me." Finally, Mycroft sighed. The little measuring contest was a waste of time, and time was not something he had an abundance of. “If you insist.” He opened the door, holding it for them.

 

Dean flashed him a smug smile, to which Mycroft rolled his eyes. All three men climbed carefully into the car, and the driver pulled away from the curb without a word.

 

“And why exactly did we have to follow you into your stuffy old man car?” Dean asked, shifting his position on the seat. He was sitting pretty close to Cas, their arms brushing against one another. But it couldn’t be helped.

 

“The flat could be bugged,” Mycroft replied, pressing the tip of his umbrella into the floor of the car.

 

“Bugged?” Dean chuckled. ”You really are James Bond. Only no where near as awesome. More like a cheap copy. A rip-off.”

 

“If you’ve finished?” Mycroft asked, his eyebrows raised. Dean nodded with a smirk, and gestured for him to continue. “Good. Now, my brother and I have been discussing a plan of sorts, but we need time to put it into action.”

 

“What is the plan?” Cas asked.

 

“We need to kill Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft replied with a smug smile at the concerned look on the faces of the two men. “It only needs to look authentic, if that eases your apprehension.”

 

“And how exactly do you plan to take care of that?” Dean asked, uneasy.

 

“My team will take care of that.”

 

“No,” Dean fumed. “No way. We are not putting Cas’s life in your hands.”

 

“I’m afraid you must, for Moriarty will not stop until the result is Sherlock’s death. He has already succeeded in slandering his name, and soon he will threaten the lives of people very important to Sherlock.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” Dean asked, thinking about the grandmotherly lady who made him ache for one of his own. “And Lestrade?” He was a friend of Sherlock’s too. _Sherlock has a pretty good life going here,_ Dean thought. He didn’t want to mess it up.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft replied with a nod. “And?”

 

“John,” Castiel added the final name. “Dean’s life will be threatened if we don’t.”

 

“Correct again,” Mycroft answered. “So, is it a plan?”

 

“We need to know more,” Cas insisted.

 

“As I stated before,” Mycroft replied, “your involvement could prove fatal to our plan. You are on a need-to-know basis.”

 

“And what do we need to know?” Dean asked.

 

“Give us time,” Mycroft answered, “and make it look convincing. As if you didn’t know there was a plan.”

 

Dean snorted. “That won’t be much of a problem.” He didn’t like being out of the loop, but something told him a power play against this man would not bode well for him. He pushed his luck just getting into the vehicle. However, Dean was not one to back down.

 

“Tell us the plan or we won’t help at all,” Dean threatened. The car stopped, back on the curb in front of the flat. They had gone in a big circle.

 

Mycroft was unamused. “You will. Now step out of the car.”

 

“Let’s go, Dean,” Castiel said, nudging him and climbing out of the car. Dean did the same and slammed the door shut. They watched as the car pulled out from the curb and drove into the busy London traffic that was present even this late at night. The two men then trudged into the building, tired and distracted. Mrs. Hudson was already at the door waiting for them.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson fussed, studying Cas’s face. “Visits with Mycroft always wear you out, you need some rest tonight.” She turned to Dean. “Please make sure you help put him to sleep tonight, John.” She winked at him. Actually winked.

 

Dean blinked. “Right. Um, will do.” Mrs. Hudson looked fondly at Dean and Castiel. "My boys," she tittered, then turned around and made her way back to 221A. Dean couldn't help but smile after her. Her implications made him feel awkward, but he doubted that Cas even understood what she meant.

 

Dean and Castiel lumbered up the stairs to the flat. "I'm beat," Dean said, closing the door behind him. "I'm gonna hit the hay."

 

Castiel nodded. "I should do some more research on Moriarty."

 

"Cas, you're human at the moment," Dean reminded. "You should get some shut-eye too."

 

Castiel opened his mouth to argue, but reconsidered it. He _was_ tired. With another nod, Castiel walked down the hallway to Sherlock's room. "Good night."

 

"Good night."

 

 

 

Dean couldn't sleep. He was used to sleeping in strange beds; that wasn't the problem. This room was much nicer than the motels he usually stayed at. No, the problem was how alone he felt. He couldn't hear the sound of Sammy breathing, or feel Castiel's presence. It was strange, of course. He slept in his own room at the bunker.

 

But the bunker was home. It was in a reality that made sense, at least to him.

 

Normally he would just drink himself to sleep. Sherlock and Watson had alcohol. He had checked. Yet somehow, he didn't want it. This alternate reality caused enough problems as it was. He didn't want to drink.

 

He just wanted to be near someone.

 

Dean checked the clock. 1:12. He had been lying there for too long. Rolling over, Dean closed his eyes. They snapped open again at the sound of shuffling. Dean sat up, pulling the gun out from underneath his pillow.

 

Then came a small knock at the door. "Dean?" It was Castiel.

 

Dean instantly calmed, setting his gun down. "Yeah, Cas?"

 

"I...I can't sleep."

 

Dean sighed. "Me either."

 

"I don't like being human." Castiel whispered as he tiptoed in. He sat on the edge of Watson's bed. In the darkness, Dean could just barely make out that he was wearing pajamas - Sherlock's, probably. "I feel so powerless," he continued. "I can't even watch over you."

 

"I doubt anything is going to get me here, Cas," Dean replied.

 

"You can't know that," Castiel argued. "Any number of things could get you here. Gabriel, for one-"

 

"Let Gabriel come," Dean interrupted. "And with that logic, anything could get you, too, Cas. There's nothing we can do."

 

"Can I sleep in here?" Castiel asked. "I can watch over you better here."

 

"Um," Dean paused. He was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was only in his underwear. But he wanted Castiel to be next to him.

 

"Alright." Dean scooted over to the edge of the bed, giving Castiel room and ensuring that they wouldn't touch. _Cas is an angel,_ he reminded himself. _He doesn't know how intimate sharing a bed is. He thinks this is a thing friends do. And that is what you are. Friends._ Just because Dean had started harboring some not-so-platonic thoughts about his friend didn't mean that Castiel did too.

 

Castiel climbed under the covers. He lay facing the ceiling, and so did Dean. They both laid there for a while, neither saying a word. Then Dean heard the sound of Castiel's breathing changing, much deeper and slower.

 

"Cas?" Dean whispered. Castiel didn't stir. He was asleep. Dean sat up and watched him for a moment. He hadn't seen Castiel sleep very often. He remembered the first time he saw him sleeping. It had been right before Sammy jumped in the pit.

 

"Aw, ain't he a little angel?" he had said.

 

"Angels don't sleep," was Sammy's reply.

 

He thought about how long Castiel had been at his side. What they had been through together. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that Castiel loved him. But not the love that Dean wanted from him.

 

Dean couldn't tell when he first realized that he had feelings for Cas. He hadn't just woken up one morning and said, "I might be in love with my best friend." It was much more gradual than that, he realized. But being here with him had made him more aware of it somehow.

 

Life felt strangely domestic at the moment.

 

Dean shifted, facing Castiel. He let the sound of Castiel's breathing lure him to sleep.

 

 

 

"Think about it," Donovan said. "There wasn't even any clues. He just somehow knew where the children were."

 

"What you're suggesting-" Lestrade replied. "No, Sherlock's smarter than that. If he was behind all of this, he would have left clues. This doesn't make any sense. You're not seriously suggesting he's involved, are you?"

 

"I think we have to entertain the possibility," Anderson argued. Lestrade rubbed his temples, looking between the two people in front of him. They were right. He knew what he had to do.

 

 

 

"What are you doing here at this time of night?" Mrs. Hudson asked, letting Lestrade in.

 

"I need to speak to Sherlock."

 

"He's upstairs," she said, closing the door behind him.

 

It was much too quiet in the flat. Sherlock probably caught wind of what he wanted and fled. Sherlock's bedroom was empty. As a last attempt, Lestrade went to check John's room. The door was closed. He opened it with a knock, expecting to see it as empty as the rest of the flat.

 

It was not.

 

There, before him, lay John and Sherlock. In the same bed. "What the hell?" he exclaimed. Then he heard the click of a gun.

 

"Who's there?" John asked. Lestrade put his hands in the air. "It's just me. Don't shoot."

 

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked. "What are you doing here?"

 

"If John would put the gun away maybe we could talk about this," Lestrade said. "I'll, uh, give you a minute."

 

 

 

"So you two are sleeping together?" Lestrade asked as he sat on the sofa. "It seems I owe Donovan some money."

 

"It's not like that," Dean quickly argued. He pulled Watson's robe closer around himself.

 

"Why are you here?" Castiel asked once again.

 

Lestrade sighed. "I'm here to ask you to come with me to the station."

 

"What? Why?" Dean asked.

 

"We have reason to believe," Lestrade replied, "That he is a suspect in the kidnapping."

 

"That's ridiculous," Dean argued. "Come on, Sherlock?"

 

"I'm sorry, John." Lestrade looked at Castiel. "Will you come?"

 

"If I refuse?"

 

"Then I have to go above. To the Chief Superintendent."

 

"You'll just have to do that, then," Dean cut in.

 

Lestrade sighed. He stood up and looked at the two men. Shaking his head, he left the flat.

 

"We have to get out of here," Dean said, as soon as Lestrade was out the door. "Let's go. Now."

 

"Dean."

 

"We don't have time, Cas. We need to go, now. Get dressed."

 

Castiel nodded and disappeared into Sherlock's room. Dean ran to Watson's, throwing on the clothes he had worn the day before. He grabbed the gun and tucked it into his belt.

 

If Watson had a go bag, Dean couldn't find it. He had checked the usual places: the closet, under the bed, but turned up nothing. Well, except for a bit more cash. He found it hard to believe that this man, who carried a gun, didn't have a go bag.

 

"I'm ready, Dean." Castiel said, standing in the doorway.

 

"Alright, let's go," Dean said, grabbing the money he had found tucked underneath the bottom drawer of the nightstand. They hurried out the door and onto the sidewalk. "Call a cab," he ordered as he did a 360. They wouldn't have much time before the DI came back with the whole squad. They would be fugitives. Not that that wasn't normal for him, but he wasn't sure how it was for Sherlock and Watson.

 

A cab immediately pulled up to the curb at the sight of Castiel's hand. "Thank god," Dean breathed. Castiel opened the door and climbed into the backseat.

 

But before Dean could follow, a stranger on the street collided with him, knocking the money out of Dean's hand. He stooped to pick it up, then heard the roar of the engine as the the cab started driving away.

 

"Hey!" Dean shouted, but the cab didn't stop. He ran down the sidewalk, desperately trying to catch up. Dean could see Castiel's face staring back at him. But he couldn't catch up. The cab was too far ahead. He stopped, breathing heavily. "What the hell?" he asked aloud.

 

 

 

"Turn around," Castiel ordered. "That man was with me." The cab driver didn't answer. "What are you doing?" Castiel asked. The man couldn't be bothered. Nothing seemed to be working. He could reach over and take the cab over by force, but the hazards of that were too great. It was a busy road, and the likelihood of a crash if he did that was too high. "He was the one with the money," Castiel tried as a last attempt. Humans were often very concerned with money.

 

"Don't worry," said the cab driver, looking back at him. "No charge."

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please review. This is my first fanfic and any suggestions are encouraged, even nitpicking. If you would like to come say hi, my tumblr URL is https://www.tumblr.com/blog/how-do-i-choose. Thanks for reading!


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